


Quality Assurance

by Furhious



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Connor is very well-equipped, Desk Sex, Dubious Consent, F/M, Gratuitous Smut, In the name of testing, Morally Ambiguous Reader, Oral Sex, Porn Without Plot, Shameless Smut, Try before you buy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-03
Updated: 2018-09-08
Packaged: 2019-07-06 10:31:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15884253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Furhious/pseuds/Furhious
Summary: The Operator has been working on the RK800 for a while. Overcome with curiosity, she decides to ‘test’ him before he’s sent out on his mission and gets more than she bargained for.Just an excuse for shameless smut. I apologise.





	1. Operator, Please

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is just going to be filthy, filthy smut and wish fulfilment and I am so sorry please don’t look at me like that
> 
> But if you like it please let me know idk

He sits with his hands on his bare thighs, pale skin almost translucent in the harsh fluorescent light. His brown hair is slicked back, eyes of matching colour open, staring straight ahead; his LED is dark, inactive. The line of his shoulders is strong, his chest well-sculpted, the narrow line of his torso leading past his defined abdominal muscles to the jut of his hipbones throwing shadows between his legs. 

 

It escapes you why the CyberLife designers made him anatomically complete; perhaps to increase the level of realism in this model, or perhaps to anticipate some as-yet unheard of scenario that might require it. Unlikely. It seems to you like an added element of conceit, of narcissism, especially considering just how...well-equipped he is. 

 

_ It _ , you remind yourself.  _ It’s not a he. It is an  _ **_it._ **

 

Quality Assurance has thousands of androids come through its offices every day, but these specialised models do not go on a conveyer belt to be checked over by any old Operator. No, these ones are put into a room with only the most trusted staff to assess and test each biocomponent, every subroutine before sending them out to stores. Or, in this one’s case, to a police station. 

 

This RK800 is a prototype, CyberLife’s most sophisticated thus far, designed as an investigator model to work alongside cops in cases involving androids. This one is almost ready for deployment. It’s up to you to clear it for active duty, as it were. If it proves successful, it will go into mass production and be deployed to police stations all over the country. 

 

Therefore, it’s a little embarrassing how distracted you are by his - its - attractiveness. 

 

You’ve seen thousands of beautiful androids, male and female, hundreds of different models. You’ve even sampled the goods, many times, in the interests of making sure  _ every _ function works correctly. Why is this one different? Why does the rise of his cheekbones, the line of his lips, the angle of his jaw arouse you so? Why does his body make you want to reach out and run your fingers along his skin? 

 

Why can’t you think of him as an  _ it? _

 

This is your twenty-third session with him. You have tested each biocomponent, audio and visual processors, reflexes, social responses. He aces every test, surpasses all your expectations. He is a magnificent piece of machinery and far too often you forget that is exactly what he is: A machine. No more, no less. 

 

Today will be your final session. 

 

You walk up to him, where he sits on a stool in the centre of the room, naked. He does not move, as still as a cadaver, and as cold. But before activating him using the tablet in your hand, you reach out with the other. What can one touch hurt? Just once, to feel his skin beneath your fingertips?

 

His shoulder is firm, the sculpted muscle of his bicep firmer. His skin is clammy from the room’s ambient temperature, but not unpleasantly so. You stroke down then up, before your hand wanders to the nape of his neck, to the short hairs at the back of his head, up and into the brown locks. He feels so  _ real _ . But the slicked-back hair is too perfect, you realize, looking at his face; it needs a more human touch. So you carefully tease a lock of his hair to hang over his forehead. There. He looks much more natural now. 

 

But now your hand is brushing his temple, over the inactive LED. Your palm cups his cheek. His skin is perfectly imperfect, a smattering of freckles across his cheeks and forehead, the faint shadow of stubble across his jaw. You tilt your head, leaning down closer. He stares ahead, unseeing, his lips slightly parted. What would it feel like to kiss him, you wonder? Would he feel as real as the companion androids you’ve tried? Or would he feel even more human?

 

You look up at the cameras in the room. You’re working late so there are few others in the building save for security. They won’t be paying attention this late. So with a few taps on the screen of your tablet, you turn off the monitors. Then, you look back down at the RK800. 

 

He sits there, still, staring forward at nothing. You can’t bear it any more. You settle into your knees in front of him. This close his skin smells like the cleaning agent you use; astringent but not too strong. You brush at the hair now hanging over his forehead, pleased with the personal touch. You hadn’t designed him but you can improve upon him. 

 

That’s what you’re doing, you decide. Improving him. By testing  _ everything _ . 

 

You lean up, breathing him in. This close he is just as beautiful, just as perfectly imperfect. You can see the pores on his nose, the veins in his eyes. You shut yours as you close the distance and press your lips to his. 

 

They are cold at first, but warm with the contact from your skin. He does not feel or taste like plastic at all, a shortcoming some of the companion androids still have. No, the flesh of his mouth is soft, pliant, plush; it melts to yours as you increase the pressure and tilt your head. You suck on his bottom lip for a moment, swipe your tongue across it; he tastes like artificial saliva and mint. He is delicious. 

 

His hand lifts and curls around the side of your face. 

 

You pull back so suddenly you lose your balance and fall to the ground on your ass, your tablet clattering away across the floor as you stare up at the RK800. He stares back, but now his LED is a bright yellow halo spinning at his temple, one that slowly oscillates to blue. 

 

“Hello,” he says, and his voice is like crushed velvet: just the right amount of husky, and as usual, it warms something in your stomach. But this time that warmth shares the space with fear. 

 

Had you accidentally activated him? Your tablet had been cleaned so tight in your hands you can’t be sure. He tilts his head as he looks at you, expressionless. 

 

“Operator, is something wrong?”

 

“No...no,” you say, picking yourself up. He follows you with that russet gaze of his, blinking as if he’s thinking. But he’s not thinking. He’s a machine. He calculates. 

 

“Your heart rate and breathing have both increased and you are exhibiting signs of increased blood flow to the capillaries in your cheeks. My social module extrapolates that you are aroused. Is my software operating correctly in drawing this conclusion?”

 

He sounds like a machine. You relax a little, despite your embarrassment. He hasn’t suffered any ill effects from your...experiment, at least. “Yes, RK800. Your software is fine.”

 

“Would you like to continue your test?” He asks politely. This time it is your turn to stare at him. 

 

“What?”

 

“I assume you were testing my physical response to external stimuli,” he continues, his expression unchanging. “Would you like to continue?”

 

You consider. While your intent had been to explore his body further, you hadn’t intended on him being conscious...and you hadn’t counted on him being  _ willing _ . But if he believes this is just another quality assurance test….

 

“Yes,” you say. “Let’s continue.”

 

He is on his feet faster than you can follow and you gasp as he descends on you. He kisses you, and you are astounded by the expertise with which he parts your lips with his own, amazed by the swipe of his tongue across yours, electrified by the hands on your waist. You push him away after a minute, light-headed. 

 

“RK, what are you doing?”

 

“My social module includes a full lexicon of information on human sexual practices,” he says. “Was I incorrect in attempting to demonstrate them?”

 

“No,” you say, “I just...didn’t know your designers included that. That’s all.”

 

His brow furrows slightly, the first sign of expression you’ve seen from him throughout all this. “Is that not what you were attempting to assess?” He asks. 

 

“I mean..of course,” you say, backpedaling. You clear your throat and attempt to appear professional. “Continue. Please.”

 

He looks at you a moment longer with that furrowed brow and his LED blinks. You get the impression he’s analysing you. But then he nods, and takes you in his arms again, and it ceases to matter as he descends on your neck. 

 

He sucks kisses into your flesh above the collar of your dress shirt, scrapes his teeth across your throat, soothes your skin with his tongue. Goosebumps rise on your arms and you gasp as you clutch at his. He is, like everything else,  _ very good _ at this. 

 

Your desk is against the wall, cluttered with various tuning equipment. He backs you towards it and you feel your hip meet the edge, and then he reaches around you to clear a space with a sweep of his arm that sends tools and components clattering to the floor. You open your mouth to rebuke him but he captures it in another searing kiss, his tongue teasing a moan from your throat as it pushes into your mouth. 

 

This is escalating out of your control, you realise. He should not have, nor be able to demonstrate these abilities. But he is, and you - with your self-professed Android fetish and obsession with the appearance of this RK800 - are powerless to stop him. 

 

You do not  _ want _ to stop him.  


	2. Oral Commands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more filth because I am enjoying this far too much thank you, don’t judge me

Your heels slip from your feet and clatter to the ground as the RK800 lifts you onto the desk as if you weigh nothing. He is warm now, you realise as your hands splay over his bare chest; you can feel his artificial heart beating a strong, steady rhythm beneath.

 

He forces your legs open with a knee, but you hardly fight it, and steps in between them. You look down and bite your lip at the sight of his cock, thick and hard, sandwiched between your bodies. It reaches up past your navel. You lower a hand to curl around it and watch, fascinated, as he twitches in response; you hear him take in a breath, filling his lungs with unnecessary and unneeded oxygen.  

 

“RK800, is this acceptable?” you ask - you’re not sure why. He’s a machine, built to accomplish the tasks that humans assign to him. He has no choice in the matter. You did not care before, when he could not consent, but now…with him there against you, his cheeks flushed, breathing past open lips with glassy eyes, he is such a convincing picture that it is important to your own humanity you make sure the simulation of his is taken into account.

 

“Yes,” he says. “My tactile feedback sensors are online and functioning at optimal levels.” 

 

You need no further encouragement. “Good,” you say as you stroke the velvety length of his cock, down then up and rubbing your thumb across the tip, finding the droplet of moisture there - so realistic - and spreading it over the plush head.

 

“To - ah - properly test my sexual functions, you will have to remove your clothes,” he says, the breathiness in his voice sending a thrill right through you. You find yourself hesitating though, nervous for a reason you can’t name. Isn’t this what you wanted, what you daydreamed about every day you worked with him, testing his more mundane functions? Isn’t this a fantasy come true?

 

It is, and it is suddenly terrifying.

 

He pulls back to meet your eyes, his blank, unmoved by any emotion. He sees your reactions and categorises them, analyses them; he does not _care_.

 

Then he reaches up and touches the side of your face, tilting his head as he brushes his thumb across your bottom lip.

 

It is such a _tender_ movement that it takes your breath away for a moment; you had no idea he was capable of such intimacy. But then, the RK800 has always surprised you in pleasant ways.

 

“You want this,” he tells you. “I’ve seen it in your body language, the dilation of your pupils, the rise in your body temperature and the increase of your heart rate when you activate me for testing. You are attracted to me.”

 

“Yes,” you breathe, unable to deny it. _Unwilling_ to deny it.

 

“Then trust me.”

 

You watch as he steps back, the heavy weight of his cock swaying back and forth between his thighs. It points straight at you, curving up at an angle that makes you wonder how well he’d fill you, what places inside you he could reach. You have a feeling you’re about to find out.

 

He reaches for the button and zipper of your dress slacks, unfastens them, and slides his thumbs in either side, catching your underwear with them. He slides both off your legs in one fell swoop and, to your consternation and some amusement, spends a moment folding them to lay them across the back of your chair. Then he turns to you, placing his hands on your knees and parting your legs once more, baring you to him.

 

“Do you have access to manuals on oral stimulation?” you ask, barely able to form the words at a volume more than a whisper. He nods. “Proceed,” you command.

 

He meets your eyes as he sinks to his knees in front of you, and you feel your heart skip a beat. His hands are on the insides of your knees, and he tugs you to the very edge of the desk. He leans in slowly, holding your gaze as he kisses your inner thigh. When you shiver, he does it again, moving an inch inwards, and then another inch, and you’re trembling before he’s even reached your sex.

 

When he does, it’s with the lightest ghost of his lips over your outer labia. You want to cry out and shove yourself into his mouth but somehow, you manage to remain still, silent. His tongue darts out to lick a stripe through your folds suddenly, and you gasp, stuffing your knuckles into your mouth to keep from making noise.

 

You’re aroused already, your folds flushed and your clitoris swollen and begging for attention, your entrance flooded with warmth. He seems to notice how worked up you are, teasing you effortlessly with light licks and kisses up and down your slit, avoiding your clitoris entirely. When you start to rock your hips towards his face he brings up a hand and to your delight, probes your entrance with two smooth fingertips. You hold your breath and let it out in a long exhale when he slides them inside you, his long digits stretching you open inside, your contact-starved body reveling at the addition.

 

He crooks his fingers and you close your eyes to stars beneath your lids as he finds _just that spot_ and you realise you are whispering “Yes, _yes,”_ under your breath as he finger-fucks you. He’s been licking at your labia this whole time but when he moves up and presses just the tip of his tongue to that swollen bundle of nerves you _do_ cry out, bucking up into his face. He steadies you with his other hand on your knee as he strokes your inner walls, pulling his fingers out and pushing back in, over and over as he tongues your clit in just the right spot with just the right amount of firmness.

 

You feel it building behind your hips, in the tensed muscles through your legs as you arch up into it, a tingling heat you know all too well, one thatrises lately only to your own fingers and the mental image of the RK800’s face above you. But now it’s his fingers, his mouth on your cunt, and you are a shivering, panting mess ready to come only minutes in.

 

He twists his fingers with the next inward plunge and closes his lips around your clitoris and _sucks_ , and your hands clench around the edge of the desk as the heat inside you reaches that crescendo all at once. You come with your teeth clenched and your back arched, your inner walls clamping around his questing digits, and he flutters his tongue against you as the waves of pleasure pulse through your body, leaving you weak and spent and utterly satisfied.

 

He pulls back and draws his fingers out of you once the spasms have passed, rising to his feet. You watch through half-lidded eyes as he examines his glistening fingers, looks at you, and then without breaking eye contact, places them in his mouth and sucks away all remaining traces of moisture.

 

“Oh, my God,” you breathe. “You’re incredible.”

 

“Thank you,” he says, then quirks a brow. “Are you ready to continue?”

 

You will be ruined for other men and even other androids after this, you’re sure. But you don’t regret a thing. And you may not be ready, but you’ll be damned if you’re going to say no now. 


	3. Factory Reset

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here is the conclusion! I hope y'all have enjoyed this as much as I've enjoyed writing it, heh heh. Follow my [tumblr](http://furhiously.tumblr.com) for more ~~Connor obsession~~ ~~smut~~ of my fanfiction and ramblings!

The RK800 stares you down, the afterglow making your limbs warm and heavy, at stark contrast with the butterflies quivering in the pit of your stomach, renewed by the intensity of his gaze. It’s dispassionate but intent in a way you can’t quite describe. It’s as if you encompass his whole world at that moment, the entirety of his focus, as if nothing else in his program matters. It’s sobering, in a way - he is built for so much more and yet here he is, at your mercy.

  
Although you’re starting to think it is _you_ who is at the mercy of _him_.

 

He notes your shiver, takes in your wide eyes, your flushed cheeks. No doubt he can detect the heavy thud of your heartbeat, the rush of blood through your veins, the quickened intake of your breath. He knows exactly what he has done to you.

 

And he knows you want more.

 

You nod, slowly, in answer to his question, although you hardly need to. He moves so quick, so fluidly, that you know he’s preconstructed the scenario, your reactions, everything. He steps in close and takes your knees, pulling them forward around his narrow hips, then he curls a hand around the back of your skull, his fingers tangling in your hair, and he uses that grip to tug your head back and bare your throat to him.

 

Ostensibly, _you_ are supposed to be the one in charge here. In every test you have managed him with command-led talking, without persuasion or intimacy, both things you craved with every passing moment spent in his company. Now, it seems you have gotten your wish. Something shifted the moment you kissed him, and fear in the back of your mind coalesces into one word: _deviancy_. But no, it’s not possible for him to deviate before the completion of the QA testing. This is simply the extent of CyberLife’s sophistication, this prototypical model displaying ever more advanced techniques. He has taken your commands and built upon them to deliver the task you have assigned him.

  
That he is affecting you so is actually a _good_ sign. This you tell yourself as you gasp and tremble in his arms, his mouth on your neck an electrifying sensation that goes straight between your legs.

 

You feel the head of his artificial dick press into the skin of your inner thigh. It feels so _real_. You reach down and take hold of it again; at the height of arousal he’s so thick you can’t even close thumb and forefinger around his girth. You wonder how he’s going to fit inside you and discover that you can’t wait to find out.

 

He stutters an unnecessary breath against your jugular and lifts his head, yours still tilted back with the grip on your hair. He has submitted you totally to him. He can do anything to you right now and you won’t care. You can see in his eyes, distant and analytical, that he knows.

 

He kisses you, slow and deep and again, with that tenderness you can’t reconcile with what you know he is. His lips meld perfectly to yours, his tongue teases moans from your mouth as you taste yourself mixed with his artificial saliva, a strangely heady mix. You feel him reach down between your bodies with his free hand, shudder as his knuckles brush your sopping folds. He pries your hand from his cock effortlessly, takes hold of himself and lines the tip up with your entrance. You’re powerless to resist and don’t want to.

 

His kisses become shallower, pressing in then pulling back to gauge your reactions, your shudders as he drags the head of his cock up and down your slit, drinking in your gasps every time he bumps your swollen clitoris. You shake with anticipation, clinging to his shoulders. You had no idea he was programmed to tease so much.

  
“Please,” you stammer, when it becomes too much. You realize you should have ordered him, but instead the plea rushes out of you far too organically. He is _good_ at this.

 

You can’t be sure but you swear you feel him smile against the corner of your mouth as he pushes forward and starts to split you open.

 

The tip of his cock breaches your entrance with little difficulty at first, and you’re so wet that it pops inside you with barely any resistance. But he’s so thick that the slide turns into a push and you’re panting and swearing under your breath as, inch by inch, he fucks into you. It’s a slow stretch and burn that has you boneless and clinging to him as if your life depends on it, back arched, but the pleasure outweighs any discomfort, your body’s natural lubricant making it far easier for him to stretch you.

 

Your thighs squeeze his narrow hips but then he lets go of your hair and places both hands on your knees and presses them back, widening the spread of your legs as far as they can go. You are being stretched open in more ways than one, and you almost protest before you realize it’s so he can press in those last couple of inches and then, finally, he is fully inside you.

 

You can feel him from stem to tip, your inner walls clenching down on the intrusion with a delicious shudder that makes your eyes roll back in your head. He feels so _good_ , hot and thick and heavy and probing in all the right places. He stops there, letting you adjust, his hands fanned out wide over your knees as he holds you in place.

 

“Operator, is this acceptable?” he asks, an echo of the same question you asked him before. You manage a nod. You know you should be asking him how this feels for him, to gauge his reactions and the data collating in his program at the sensations, but your mouth is open on only the labored effort of your breath.

 

“Good,” he says. This time you _do_ see him smirk and you wonder if you’ve gone too far but the thought is chased from your head as he pulls back, your body protesting as the length of his cock strokes against your inner walls, but it’s worth it with the spike of sensation as he pushes back into you all at once.

 

“Ah-!” You cry out brokenly as he impales you on his cock, hitting a spot so deep inside you see stars. He’s given you time enough to adjust that it doesn’t hurt, but the intensity of the feeling threatens to overwhelm you nonetheless. You swear you can feel him in the back of your _throat_.

 

His hands curl underneath your knees and _lift_ , and you lose your grip on his shoulders and fall, your back hitting the desk with a _thud_ . He thrusts into you again and from this angle it’s a smooth slide that presses his pubic bone into yours as your hips meet. You can’t think, you can only _feel_.

 

Somehow, you manage to open your eyes, staring up at him as he fucks the sense out of you. His head is bowed, a furrow of concentration between his brows you hadn’t noticed before, his eyes dark beneath half-shut lids, the lock of hair you teased out before falling over them. His LED is a bright yellow, blinking rapidly at his temple. You want to reach out and touch it but the next thrust makes you arch and forget how to breathe. You clutch at the edges of the desk instead.

 

Each powerful undulation of his body above, into yours sends a jolt through you. You feel his cock drag through you, spreading you open, drawing pleasure from every nerve inside your cunt. He’s gaining speed, you realize distantly, the back-and-forth snap of his hips picking up the pace as your reactions assure him you can take it.  
  
  
The sound of skin against skin is wet, obscene, the slap of his body into yours intoxicating. Organic. Real. You have no awareness outside it, unable to focus on anything besides the man - the _android_ \- above you.

 

The familiar tension inside the vault of your hips, behind your clitoris, in the burn of tensed muscles of your thighs on either side of him is growing with every movement. You’re helpless to fight against it. It’s the quickest anyone has brought you to this point, eyes rolled back, mouth open and drooling as you’re pounded into sheer oblivion. You don’t care. It’s magnificent. Perfect.

 

And then his hands clamp under your thighs and lift your knees up over his shoulders and you’re _crying_ as the angle changes and the head of his cock scrapes back through your insides and presses in again finding a spot that slams lightning through your bones. Again and again.

 

“Yes!” you cry out, clutching at your desk so hard you feel your nails splinter, the flutter and clamp of your inner muscles warning you of what’s to come.

 

The sound from your mouth when it hits is throaty and primal, your hips lifting clear of the desk as he pushes into you one last time, holding there as your inner muscles clamp and spasm around the length of his cock. Galaxies shatter and reform behind your eyelids as you squeeze them shut, tears leaking from the corners as you hold yourself there, weathering the waves with jerks and spasms both inside and out.

 

Distantly you feel him throbbing and twitching inside you, adding a warmth to your own, and with vague astonishment you realize he’s coming too. Somehow that reignites something inside you and you’re barely coming down before it’s rolling through you again. You feel his fingers on your clit, pulsing beneath them, and he has you sobbing with just a brush of his smooth, fingerprint-less digits over the throbbing bundle of nerves.

 

When he feels the tension start to leave your legs, when you start shaking your head and jerking as the oversensitivity hits, he slows to a stop. His fingers leave you but he holds himself inside the grip of your body, still impossibly hard.

 

As awareness returns you realize you are drenched with sweat, your hair sticking to the back of your neck, your bra damp underneath the heave of your breasts, your neck and the space between your shoulderblades sticky with perspiration. A line of drool tracks your cheek and you finally let go of the desk to reach up and wipe it away, along with the tears that have puddled at your hairline. You are utterly wrecked, in all the best ways.

 

He moves then, pulling out of you slowly. You feel moisture, not just yours, pool between your legs. There are a few models of companion androids that can simulate an orgasm down to artificial semen, for realism purposes. You don’t usually explore that option but you regret it now. It adds a layer of intimacy to the experience, of filthy enjoyment to press your thighs together and feel the evidence of your activity ooze and stick to your thighs.

 

Finally, you open your eyes to look up at him. He stands almost hesitant, and the expression on his face is so...open, so searching, so _human_ that for a moment you forget what he is. Your heart clenches in your chest.

 

“Did I hurt you?” he asks, his voice low. You want to reach out and hold him to you. It’s a strange impulse you’ve never felt before with an android, but this is one you know better than most.

 

“No,” you say, shift your legs as he lets them down slowly to hang over the side of the desk. You push an elbow beneath you and sit up, wincing slightly. Your sartorius and gracilus muscles ache from being spread and held open for so long, and your cunt feels stretched and empty, clenching with aftershocks around nothing. You will be sore for days, but it’s worth the pain to have been so thoroughly fucked. “I’ll be fine.” He nods, and you regard him with sympathy. It is a strange emotion to have towards an android.

 

“Systems report?” you order, but gently. His LED, still yellow, oscillates and blinks.

 

“All biocomponents operating at nominal levels,” he says mechanically, the emotion...or what you thought might have been emotion...leaving his voice. “My sexual programming has concluded. Would you like me to enter analysis mode?”

 

“No,” you say hurriedly. “Not yet.” You look around for anything to clean up the mess between your thighs with; he seems to notice, leaning down to scoop a packet of antiseptic wipes from the floor where he knocked the rest of your tools. He hands it to you wordlessly and you nod your thanks, unnecessary, cleaning yourself up hurriedly before sliding off the desk.

 

Your legs barely take your weight. You stagger, and the RK800 catches you, his arms oddly gentle around you as he helps you balance. You avoid his eyes and don’t know why. You don’t thank him verbally. He’s a machine.

 

You grab your clothes from the back of the chair and dress while he watches you, and try not to feel...anything. But you do feel something. You’re just not sure what it is.

 

You’ve shared something with this android. He’s done things to do that no other man, human or not, has before. He unmade you with his body, shattered you into your constituent parts and put you back together again.

  
Isn’t that what you were supposed to do to _him_?

 

He is one hell of a prototype, you decide as you turn to him, finally dressed. He stands naked, waiting, his cock tumescent between his legs once more but no less impressive. His skin is shiny with both your fluids.

 

You take another antiseptic wipe and clean him down as you have a thousand times before, but his eyes track your movements with a kind of knowing you’re not entirely comfortable with. He says nothing while you do it. You’re grateful.

 

You discard the used wipes and slip your heels back on, smoothing your hair back from your face. You’re still shaky and weak but you have your armor back on now.

 

“Purge your memory systems of this session,” you say hollowly as you look up at the RK800. “And all associated data.”

 

Normally, he would accede to such a request immediately, but your heart drops as you see his LED blink red - just for a second - as he hesitates.

 

“Are you sure?” he says. “If you would like to conduct a similar test again, this data could be useful-”  
  
“Purge your memory immediately,” you say, quickly, panic a cold feeling in your gut, chasing away any lingering afterglow. You place your hand on his shoulder. You don’t know why. “I’m sorry, but this...this was our last session.”

 

He blinks, once. You see his teeth worry the inside of his lip, just a hint of emotion that’s enough to make you doubt _everything_ you know about androids. But then his LED flickers to blue, and he nods.

 

“Thank you, Operator.”

 

He’s said it dozens of times before, his social module responsible for the politeness with which he treats you. But this time there’s something more.

 

Before his LED cycles to yellow as he carries out the memory wipe, he meets your eyes. You feel cold with what you see there, and your breath freezes in your lungs as he smirks.

 

“I won’t tell anyone.”

 

Then his gaze slips from yours and he faces ahead, his expression going blank as he wipes his databanks of the encounter.

 

Shakily, you walk away from him and pick up your tablet from the ground. The room is a mess, everything from your desk on the floor. You roll the stool back over to the RK800, hesitating as you step around him. He’s completed the wipe already, his LED blue again.

 

“Hello,” he says as you come back into his field of vision. You feel...relieved, disappointed. Something. You don’t know what to feel.

 

“Sit down,” you tell him. He does without hesitation, holding his hands in his naked lap. This time you don’t look him over.

 

“This will be our last session,” you say, watching for a reaction. Nothing. You bite your lip. “There’s just one thing I have to do before CyberLife deploys you.”

 

The RK800 waits, his attention on you, his face blank, his eyes empty.

 

You sigh. “RK800, register your name.” You think for a moment. “...Connor. Your name is Connor.”

 

His LED goes yellow for a moment. He nods, slowly. “...My name is Connor,” he says. “I’m the android sent by CyberLife.”

 

You smile at him, sad, grateful, scared, conflicted. “Yes,” you say. "You are."

 

 _And I'll miss you, Connor._  
  
  
_I'm sorry._


End file.
